


Silence

by WonderMint



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Anal Sex, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Sad Boys in Snow, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-05-18 13:14:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5929729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WonderMint/pseuds/WonderMint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, Ser Aymeric and Lord Haurchefant had been friends.  But they didn't talk much anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Silence

**Author's Note:**

> This is an experiment in style and aesthetics. It runs completely counter to my usual style, which is very concerned with minutia and the heavy space between moments. As a result this is rather shorter and lighter than I usually write, though hopefully still fun(?)
> 
> With the addition of the second chapter, it is now complete. There is, however, a sequel planned... one of these days.

Once upon a time they had been friends. But they didn't talk much anymore.

 

Ser Aymeric and Lord Haurchefant had many interests that seemed to align. But it took more than mere patriotism and a genuine desire to do good to become as close as they had, even in a land so beset by fear and intrigue. When Aymeric had finally won promotion as the Lord Commander, above men with more years and higher titles than he, he had felt adrift in a sea of enemies, danger circling like the wings of a cloud of wyrms. He had expected none to celebrate his position other than a few trusted comrades. But it had been Haurchefant who had stopped by the Congregation and offered to drink to his success, genuine joy reflected in clear blue eyes, a grin that was always a little too broad to be entirely appropriate.

 

Aymeric had taken him up on the offer, and since then they had been as friends.

 

Lord Haurchefant had something of a reputation as the black sheep of House Foretemps. Bastard child, loose cannon, spoiled by his father but kept at a distance by necessity, relegated to the backwater of Camp Dragonhead to deal with the sinful world, mired in its filth. No glory, no succession, very little recognition. And much like the stoic knight, he had taken to the situation with no bitterness, only love for his family and country, a genuine desire to serve and help where he could. Even when the recipients of his kindness were unclean in the eyes of his countrymen.

 

In a way, they were too different to truly be friends.

 

In a way, that was true, even now. Haurchefant was red, hot, quick to act and quick to defend. The candy-sweet blue of his hair and eyes didn't even properly mask the intensity he held, too electric was he, too volatile and vibrant. His masculine features and strong countenance seemed unyielding, but in truth he was a dancer. He would give his enemy no ground, no quarter, because all of it was moving beneath his own feet. Lord Haurchefant was the tempest alive, the spirit of loyalty given wings and breath. He would never fail his friends because he simply cared too much.

 

It was difficult sometimes for Ser Aymeric to bear, though often he suspected that the lord was holding back, shying away from expressing himself fully though he seemed ever to live out-loud.

 

He himself was blue, cold, slow to retaliate and logical in his reactions. His hair was black like stone glass, gentle waves falling carelessly around his face in his one concession to softness. His eyes, they were not soft, nor warm. They were sharp and cold as steel, the truest indicator of the danger he posed to his opponents. He was steady and full of grace. Strong but lithe, every movement considered, every swing of his longsword hitting home. Slicing, rending, cutting down without mercy. Honorable, true, but tempering the idealism in his heart with the cold quench of reality. In the end, his aims were the same as Haurchefant's. But they could not have been more different.

 

It simply didn't matter. Perhaps they were too different to have been friends... or perhaps they were too different _not_ to be. Whether it was their differences or their similarities, though, they trusted one-another. Well enough to know when words were necessary, and when they were not.

 

Finding his diplomatic duties much expanded, his natural charisma and steely resolve put to use for more than bolstering morale and negotiating for funds, it seemed only natural that Ser Aymeric would make Camp Dragonhead his home away from home whenever the need arose. Haurchefant always welcomed him with open arms, perhaps with too much enthusiasm. Perhaps. But his sincerity, his loyalty, were unquestionable. So when the lord had offered him the permanent use of his guest room—not one of the small cells in the general living area, but a bed in his personal quarters, only a door away from his own—Aymeric found himself unable to refuse his kindness.

 

He had thought nothing of it at the time, well used to the oddness of everything Haurchefant did and said, finding himself having grown to trust his intent unquestionably.

 

But he had to admit now that refusing the offer would have been the only way to avoid this present outcome. He, himself, had been quite unable.

 

They almost never spoke anymore. They conversed politely at dinner in the common room, over neutral topics. Politics, house intrigue, the movements of the Dragonstar. Haurchefant's pet adventurer, frequently. They greeted each other with warm formality whenever he arrived at Camp Dragonhead, or when Haurchefant made occasional visit to the Congregation with business from House Foretemps. But they never spoke of personal matters, no commiseration over a drink, no discussion long into the night, staying awake longer than the embers in the fireplace. Not anymore.

 

It had begun very simply. One night, weary from yet another journey through the snow, chocobo-sore and feeling as if he would never be warm again, he had dropped his sword and armor by Haurchefant's guest bed—now his bed, familiar and cozy—and collapsed into a dreamless sleep.

 

He was awoken by the feeling of being watched. He had been a warrior for too long not to notice, though he wasn't sure what it was that had alerted him. Was it the too-soft sound of his breath? A stirring in the air, always moving a little more than he expected because he sometimes forgot to close the door to his room? Perhaps it was just the unnatural quiet displayed by the man, a man who seemed to need to put every single thought in his mind into boisterous words. Regardless, he knew he was being watched by Haurchefant, though he made no movement, lying still on his back and keeping his breathing deep and even, feeling no anxiety at the knowledge. Only curiosity.

 

Long minutes passed, the knight growing comfortable again in the warmth of their shared sanctuary, relaxing into the feather-soft mattress enough to feel that he was knocking on the door to sleep. It was hard to say how long it took, perhaps half a bell. But eventually the other man moved. Just not in the direction Aymeric had expected.

 

He moved quietly, but not so quietly that he seemed to be trying to hide his presence. And with no fuss and nary a single word, the lord climbed beneath the thick duvet to settle at his side, holding to the edge and occupying as little of the bed as he could manage.

 

And that was it. At first Aymeric didn't even move to give him more space, refusing to admit that he was aware of him. But he was, he felt positively bathed in the other man's presence, unable now to even ponder returning to slumber. Finally he rolled away from the intruder and curled on his side, keeping his movements clumsy and sighing as if in sleep, and Haurchefant seemed to relax, just a little.

 

When morning came around, sleep having apparently visited him at some point, the bed was once again his alone. He tried to put it out of his mind. Haurchefant had been a true friend to him, and so he had no problem making such a concession. Whatever it was that made him need his company or his warmth, didn't matter in the end. He would speak of it when he was ready, and until then he would not deny him the comfort.

 

So when it happened a second time the following night, he didn't even wake until he felt a body moving beside him, and when he did he rolled over automatically. The arm that wound around his waist didn't really bother him, nor the warmth of the man's chest pressing against his bare back. It was comfortable. Cozy. Welcoming. And he found he missed it when he woke again, having fallen asleep nearly immediately and resting soundly throughout the night.

 

It didn't happen every night that he slept there, coming and going occasionally through the Coerthan frost. Not at first. But around the fourth or fifth time, he began to expect it, even if Haurchefant had already been asleep in his own room when he had arrived.

 

He left the door open ever after that, no longer thinking there was any reason for it to be closed.

 

It didn't take long for the man to stop vanishing before he awoke, and they gradually abandoned the pretense of secrecy, by slow degrees. And one night, Haurchefant came to him as he was easing into the blankets, and the raven-haired knight simply scooted aside to make room for him, without so much as a questioning glance. It felt natural to wrap an arm around him, no longer facing away, no longer pretending not to notice. And when the other man's fingers traced slowly up his arm, looking intently into his eyes as if gauging his reaction, he made no move to resist. Rather he registered the sensations, cataloging them with detached curiosity, nearly amusement. He made no speculation as to the reason his heart seemed to beat a little faster, or why it was that Haurchefant would trace his stomach and chest with light fingertips, lips silent and unyielding. It was only natural for the knight to embrace him tight when he had finished his short exploration, and fall asleep with his face nestled into morning-bright hair.

 

But he realized the next day what it had meant, his lonely ride to the Observatorium focusing his thoughts into places he had never expected them to tread.

 

His business concluded, he returned near sunset. They shared a meal and some wine, laughing easily at the short-sightedness of Astrologians, telling stories and making jokes of their short temper and single-minded focus.

 

And when it was time to retire, he followed Haurchefant to his quarters. And in Aymeric's bed, touches now reciprocated, but still experimental, they shared their first kiss.

 

There were no words. There were never any words, and there still weren't. There was only exploration, touch, taste, skin and lips and teeth.

 

That had been the extent of it, then. Kisses that grew slowly from tender to passionate, anxious to needy, hands sliding tentatively on bodies that did not belong to them. They were not bold enough to explore further, even though they made clear with their glances and sighs that permission had been granted. It was harder to fall asleep that night, arousal making Aymeric's blood race even as the kisses had stroked and then slowly calmed his fire. But the comfort of the other man's arms was absolute, and he awoke refreshed. But still wanting.

 

The next opportunity, weeks later, he no longer hesitated, and neither did Haurchefant.

 

Still, they spoke no words. It had become something of a game, shy glances and touches almost seeming to communicate more than speech. The knight was inexperienced, but he knew enough of his own body to know what might please the other man. It had been most natural to start with the touch of his hands, the compulsive need to explore rising within Aymeric and making him need to map the man in his arms, chart the skin that slid over dense muscle and bone, twitching beneath his sensitized fingertips and occasionally feeling him back, rising to meet him or reaching out to kiss, to suck, to hold.

 

Just never to speak.

 

Watching, though, that was allowed. He found that he loved to watch Haurchefant, his expressive face telling him everything he needed to know. His wide mouth could express every wish, every desire, without ever giving voice to his thoughts. A shy grin, almost a frown save for the slight upward curl of the very edge of his lip, flirting with the blush on his cheeks and the flutter of his lashes. An invitation. Lips parted so slightly, teeth barely visible beneath them, shining with saliva as his tongue danced silently, as if his words were evaporating into the night though his eyes were shut tightly to keep his thoughts inside. Encouragement. Mouth opened wide, as if shouting, though all that could be heard was a strangled gasp, his head thrown backward and baring his throat to pleasure and need, senseless to aught but the sliding of skin against skin. Senseless to everything except touch, and then Aymeric surrendered his sight as well, succumbing to the need to kiss the man, to _keep_ him silent, to stroke his tongue in time with the movements of his hand until even the nails digging into his back became sweet pleasure. Every place their skin met, pleasure, and when Haurchefant finally broke with a sensual cry, Aymeric nearly followed him to the abyss, the sound shocking him to the core as though his ears had been starved.

 

But he had not fallen, had not succumbed, and well that he had not. Haurchefant rewarded his restraint, his lips returning to their shy smile, though his blush was less demure this time. And he had taken Aymeric's fingers into his mouth, deeply, with great relish, exploring their surface with his tongue and grumbling in approval. It too was shocking, seeming to steal the very breath from the knight's lungs, so he found that when the other man finally slipped his hand below the band of his loose drawstring pants, he had no more shock to display. He was already blushing too fiercely, already more aroused than he had thought possible as deft fingers closed around him. He had no recourse but to lay his head back and surrender, arms haphazard at his sides and fingers grasping at air as he panted and moaned plaintively. The other man seemed to know precisely what he wanted, perhaps watching him as he had been watched in turn, and it was not long before he too was lost to pleasure, lost to everything, completely lost in Haurchefant's touch.

 

That night they didn't immediately pull the heavy covers close, too warm already from the heat of their own bodies and the fire of their sin. But gradually the light sweat that clung to them cooled, and they could snuggle close. Languid, relaxed, comfortable.

 

They did not speak. They would not have known what to say, or how to say it. It was too new, too forbidden, too wrong and too right. If they had spoken, they would have had to explain it, or deny it, or categorize it, or apologize for it. Better to accept without understanding, agree without asking. It might have been a fragile truce, but within the confines of Aymeric's borrowed room, the silence was not fragile at all.

 

When he awoke the next morning, he placed a kiss on Haurchefant's lips as he crawled over him to leave, the world without their sanctuary loud with judgmental words and shrill voices.

 

He did not manage to escape until nearly a bell later, though he had urgent business to attend. Even in silence, Haurchefant's tongue made a much better argument. He was surprised to find the uses to which it could be put, though all he could manage in response was a sharp gasp as he was enveloped in wet heat. Aymeric had thought to defy him, had thought to resist, but the fingers that tangled in straight blue hair rebelled, urging instead of objecting, as if communicating without words meant that he was incapable of deception. Perhaps it was so. Perhaps that was why he had been so gifted a negotiator. Perhaps his words had always lied, and only touch could be counted as truly honest.

 

He resolved never to touch another, then. Only to Haurchefant would he give the unvarnished truth.

 

And so he did, no longer fighting the sensation but welcoming it, letting the other man know with gentle tugs of his hair and trembling caresses of his long ears. Urging his tongue, urging the other man to take him, the words flashing in his mind unspoken: deeper, faster, _oh dear gods don't stop_ \--

 

And somehow the other man heard them anyway.

 

It wasn't words that tumbled from his lips at last, he was too far gone, a man untamed and uncivilized by language and convention. But that did not prevent him from giving voice to it, deep unsteady gasps and moans as his fingers seized in candy-blue hair. He thought for a moment that he had hurt the other man, unable to control himself, needing then to be buried deep in his hot mouth more than he needed his own soul. But Haurchefant was taken only by desire, his puckish grin satisfied and longing and oh-so-pleased with himself as he licked his mischievous lips.

 

It was infuriating. Only the fury to which it incited him was lust, not wrath.

 

He took the man's mouth again, took it with his own, pleased with the mewls of approval he received as he tasted the new flavor on his lover's tongue. But though he pinned the man below him, squirming with breathless moans and half-formed giggles, he could win no further purchase. Haurchefant would not allow him more than that taste. He played dirty, effortlessly turning lovemaking into war and flipping Aymeric out of bed as if they had been children wrestling in the mud. In shock, the cold of the stone floor seeping up through the threadbare rug, the knight peered up at his friend. Questioning, perched on the edge of hurt, sated but wanting to see, hear, _taste_ more.

 

Lord Haurchefant would not say a word, would never say a word. He just leaned over the edge of the bed and smiled. It was somehow coy and daring at the same time, the sort of smile that, though small in form, made one's entire face tingle with the happiness it reflected, colored even Aymeric's cheeks with infectious joy. Slowly, his lips parted to reveal teeth, the tip of his wicked tongue flicking out to taste the air, to tempt him like a snake, though no words were needed. His electric blue eyes shined with a secret mirth, almost a challenge.

 

Then, abruptly, he turned in the bed and bundled himself back into the covers, twisted and tangled and very much ensconced. In Aymeric's bed. The bed that he would return to, at some point, when the night grew cold and his armor heavy.

 

And though they spake no words, the message was loud and clear: Aymeric was not allowed to return the gesture precisely because he felt the need to. Now, he would be compelled to seek the lord out again, to pin him down roughly and _show_ him how much he needed him. There would be no opportunity for regret or reconsideration. He had been issued a challenge, one which his honor would not allow him to forget. And so they would do this again. As many times as necessary.

 

If there had been words, they would only have gotten in the way. This way, in the silence, the liminal expanse between words and deeds, they could see the truth of their own desires. He might have suggested aloud that it should be a one-time affair, but this way he could simply know the truth.

 

They both wanted more, and they would have it. They would be too busy to speak, anyhow.


	2. Location

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not gonna lie to you, Marge. I may have let Haurchefant get a little out of hand.

Once upon a time they had been friends. But as with many things, it had been a matter of being in the right place, at the right time.

 

The Holy See was not a large city by any means. Smaller still were the ranks of the elite, the nobility and the ruling class. It was unsurprising that Ser Aymeric and Lord Haurchefant would have met there, though the Lord Commander was not _supposed_ to have been counted among the ranks of the powerful. His high office, as well as his existence, seemed to be a kind of trick of the light. A bending of the rules. A nod and a wink, that, for the time being at least, seemed to inspire his people into a willing suspension of disbelief.

 

He did not like to break the rules. One day, he feared, the rug of lies would be swept from beneath his feet, bringing him and everything for which he cared crashing to the ground.

 

But for now it seemed that everything was aright. A place for everything, and everything in its place.

 

Aymeric's place was at the command of the Temple Knights, the force that kept the peace in the See and the war in Ishgard. He had not many friends in positions of power, but his knights respected him, and his people loved him. He cared not for the high office. Rather, it was the best place from which to serve his country and protect his people, and he would see it done at any cost.

 

Lord Haurchefant's place was Camp Dragonhead. It was his home, and it belonged to him. His domain. His palace. His kingdom. And, though he should not have, he had offered a small fiefdom to the knight he had called a friend. A small piece of his pie, a slice of home. The bed that Aymeric now called his own, when he ranged occasionally through the Central Highlands of Coerthas, was located within a tiny guest room in Haurchefant's own private apartment.

 

Aymeric had accepted it, though he should not have.

 

What had ensued had been a matter of location. Aymeric had, deep down, known that his friend had been a little odd, eccentric even. He had simply turned a blind eye, trusting that the lord would do him no harm, and conflating that truth with the trust that he would do nothing _unseemly_.

 

They were no longer quite friends. Now, they were lovers. He had opened himself to the possibility the moment he had slept in the lair of the beast. It was obvious, now. It was obvious because, denied the expedient of speech, he lacked the faculty to talk himself out of it. Denied the lies of speech, only the truth of his actions could prevail, and the arguments had been compelling indeed.

 

He could not speak because it was a game that they played. And silence had been its first and only rule.

 

But in truth, it was also a matter of location.

 

Aymeric had hated Coerthas. But he found that, now, he wished for any excuse to visit. Whether it was a meeting with the wunderkind and his strange band of adventurers, threatening the Astrologians at the Observatorium, or chasing heretics through ice and stone, the knight's blood would race and his imagination, well, it would ignite. He did not enjoy sleeping in his home in the See. That bed was cold, practical, the cabinet where he filed his body to rest after spinning as a cog in a machine of hard stone. His thoughts were ever bent toward Camp Dragonhead, where Haurchefant awaited him, a sly grin that could have doubled as invitation or incitement to violence. That bed was warm and welcoming, the embrace free of judgment and even rationality. Only in that bed did he feel alive. Only in that place could he imagine that it was possible to feel happiness.

 

After their first indiscretion, it had taken precisely a week to find an excuse to return to his home away from home, in the silence of the snows. Eight long days, seven of profane contemplation and just one of holy worship, a token submission to the Fury's will though his thoughts were ever bent on defying it. And then he chanced to pass through, with a request on the activities of the heretics that had been of late infesting the Central Highlands, a face set in stern worry that he could only hope would mask his true intent from all save his fixation.

 

In the silence of Haurchefant's apartment, there could be no hiding his true feelings. It was a sacred space, a temple to contemplation and sin. The moment they had crossed the threshold, all of his pretense was stripped away, replaced with the cloak of ritual silence.

 

In that place, they had sworn without words never to sully their lips with speech.

 

But their lips could be put to any number of other uses.

 

The first had been a frown. He had arrived late to the camp, an accident of happenstance that he nonetheless found convenient. There would be no formalities exchanged, no setting down to work and speaking of things that were so routine that they were ordinarily beneath the direct attention of his office. He was not certain that he could have stood it, pretending to think for so long of other things. It was better this way. No words, just the shuffle of boots on stone, tracing his way to the room he knew well and the man he was sure was nearby. And when, opening the door, he at last beheld him, he graced him with his narrow-eyed frown.

 

The lord had sat at the small dining table in his main room, looking over some documents while sipping at a mug of spiced wine. Quiet, as was fitting, though it still seemed a strange attitude for the boisterous man to take. And when he looked up at Aymeric, one of the few who had permission to enter his rooms with no notice nor announcement, he smiled in answer, warm to his cold.

 

It was a sheepish smile, small, cautious. As if he weren't sure that the knight still wished to play their game. But it was all the invitation Aymeric needed, because he swept forward to claim his prize.

 

And he put their lips to different use, making sure Haurchefant _knew_ how distracted he had been while he was away. The trick the man had played on him that morning had made his blood boil, first with ecstasy and then with lust. Now he demonstrated it, laid out his thoughts one-by-one. With kisses that skipped the stage of shy exploration and launched straight to steamy, deep delves that were _worth_ the damnation they brought, if only for the small sounds the lord made at his intrusion. Surprised, high-pitched and needy.

 

He dragged the man to the nearest bed, his own, shoving him forcefully upon it and attacking his clothing, still snared by the occasional kiss as if he could not always remember the task at hand. He was rough, more forceful than necessary by far, all patience having left him fully a week ago. But Haurchefant did not mind, or at least did not object. The words he failed to speak were all encouragement, smiles of wonder and astonishment, squeaks of surprise, a willing and welcoming mouth. And finally blushes, not demure exactly but still a little shy, still not used to his friend looking at him like he was. Openly, hungrily, desire unrestrained.

 

And so finally, being in the right place at the right time, Ser Aymeric took what he wanted. In his borrowed bed, he devoured Haurchefant, taking him deep and tasting him, running his tongue over every surface and listening to the lord's wordless replies. He had never done anything like it before, but for the last week it had been all he could think about. Remembering what his friend had done and wondering how he might move him to similar pleasure, imagining what might feel good as he explored his own body with renewed interest. Now he was gratified to put his musings to practice, poor though they were when faced with reality. Haurchefant was alive in his mouth, solid and hot and thrumming with blood, twitching under his hands even has he held the man's hips steady. It did not matter, he was not afraid. He was _hungry_ , and so he consumed the willing creature beneath him, though he was mindful of his teeth.

 

Listening to Haurchefant was a delight, though he was sadly unable to steal more than a few glances as he worked. If their sanctuary were a temple to silence, then the lord's deep cries were devotional song. It was almost enough to move him as well, but he was unable to join his singing, his mouth rendered silent by another form of worship entirely. Instead he reveled in the taste of the man, the sudden burst of flavor and heat. Having consumed his body he then drank, completing the sacrament of their souls.

 

Once a week would not have been often enough to take such communion.

 

As it was, looking upon Haurchefant was nearly a sin in its own right, his post-coital bliss the very definition of wanton. Once again it incited Aymeric to lust, prompting him to capture the lord's open and panting lips, to bury fingers in his disheveled hair. His prey still did not object, murmuring in pleasure and encouragement, stealing into the knight's mouth to taste the fruit of their transgressions and humming a soft note of approval.

 

Of course he knew that Aymeric would not be satisfied with just that, though he nearly had been. He had trekked the snows of Coerthas for no other reason than to take Haurchefant for his own, but the lord of Camp Dragonhead did not forget his friends. And so, hardly breaking away from his needy kisses, the blue-crowned lord worked his mischief, freeing them both from the remainder of their clothing and leaving no place to hide.

 

The knight would not have thought he had wanted to hide, but something in Haurchefant's gaze nearly made him think otherwise. It was too soft, too close, heavy-lidded and deep, speaking of unspoken nothings and nearly dangerous with desire. And when the man leaned close and brushed his lips softly, blushing still and silent, so silent, Aymeric knew that they were making love.

 

He hadn't time to wonder at the meaning of it, too overwhelmed was he by the close press of their bodies, the searing expanse of skin. Aymeric wilted under his touch, allowed himself to be tamed. Sated by his meal, he trusted the other man to give him what he needed. He had thought, of course, that what he required was action, frenzied and immediate, but Lord Haurchefant clearly knew better. It was slow and sensual kisses, soft brushes of his lips and fingers that made him lean his head back against the pillow and surrender his senses. The lord took his time, tasting all the parts of Aymeric's body that were not desperate for touch, teasing his nipples to hardness and tickling his ribs. It was a slow seduction, so slow that it had become sex in itself, a sinuous slide of bodies and low gasps of pleasure the only thing they could remember they needed.

 

At length, when the only sound Aymeric could ever recall having heard was his own shaking breath, Haurchefant judged him ready for more.

 

It was a surprise by then. It would have been a surprise at any time, but at that moment he was lost deep within the lord's mouth, a maze of tongue and teeth and purring rumbles from which he might never have found his way back. Haurchefant's touch led him back to the land of attention, a trail of breadcrumbs and sensation, making him wonder at the way their bodies slid together, the other man having slipped easily between his legs and pulled back from his lips. Aymeric felt as if he let him go with difficulty, trailing after him with searching lips and gasping breath.

 

For a bright moment Haurchefant merely stared at him, heavy-lidded and sensual, expressing some manner of resolve in the hard set of his jaw and the soft curve of his lips. His eyes were narrowed to grim purpose, no longer feeling the need to ask for permission, having bypassed speech entirely for thought and action.

 

Aymeric rarely saw such determination in his friend, and he found that the sight made his body ache to see his purpose completed.

 

But the lord's mouth was ever bent on mischief, even in silence, making a show of taking his own fingers into his mouth and sucking them greedily. A peep show of imitation, flashing his tongue and teeth and staring back at his target, at the man who had done the same to his cock and wanted nothing more than the same treatment in return. At the man he knew was near to breaking, having waited the length of the creation of the world to have him again. At the man whom he touched only lightly, now, his other hand pressing to the knight's chest and stomach, stroking soothingly but making clear he was to stay, to wait. And Aymeric found that he had the patience to obey, to sit silently, to watch and wonder.

 

In that place he was allowed no words. It was a vacuum, a negative space, and where speech had once stood there was now only trust.

 

So when Haurchefant finally withdrew his fingers, now transformed into objects of desire by his wicked tongue, and calmly dragged his wet fingertips along the cleft of Aymeric's arse, the knight simply counted it as that for which he had asked. He had needed, wanted, and once again his friend had known his true desire, even when he himself had not. So to answer the unspoken question that was not on the lord's lips, he merely spread his legs wider, closing his eyes and welcoming the intrusion, relaxing into the other man's touch and marveling at the care he shewed. Groaning at the intimacy of the moment, of trust and closeness and the unexpected pleasure of penetration.

 

It almost would not have mattered if he had found no pleasure in the act. But as it happened, he did.

 

His lover seemed to know precisely how to touch him, stroking deep with patience and care, leaning forward again to capture a kiss. He might have floated away otherwise, anchored to reality only by the sensation of Haurchefant, his fingers, the heat of his body, the gentle attention of his lips. He was filled and stretched and slightly confused, but it did not matter. He was safe, here, in his borrowed bed, in their special place. There were no voices to judge, and so it did not matter _how_ or _where_ Haurchefant touched him. No matter what he did, it would bring him joy, making his body sing and demand for more.

 

As it was, the tight friction of his fingers made sparks within him, threatening to set fire to the tinder of his lust, making his body burn with heat and arousal and embarrassment and need.

 

And as if hearing his wordless thoughts, Haurchefant drew away again, lips bruised but smirking as he retrieved a bottle of sweet-smelling oil from the bedside drawer. And it was then that Aymeric understood that the other man was as desperate as he, as needy and restrained and ravenous with hunger. His lips had only made the flame flicker, his tongue fanning the fire, to burn and consume him with hot desire. He could see it now, barely constrained behind blazing blue eyes, as if he were a field-mouse and those eyes were the last sight he might see before razor-edged talons gripped his throat and tore him asunder. But it was not fear with which he shivered, laying his head back upon the pillow to watch and groan. It was anticipation, trust, want. Silence.

 

Ser Aymeric had come to Camp Dragonhead to claim Lord Haurchefant for his own. But in that place was a magic, where words were plucked straight from the air and turned to pure possibility. And so it was that he allowed the other man to claim him instead, to satisfy desires he had never dared to dream. It was only the magic of that place, the air charged with silence and wonder, that made it more satisfying than he had thought possible.

 

Or perhaps it was simply Haurchefant.

 

He would never know, because he would never speak the thought aloud. When he opened his mouth, he could no longer control the noises that spilled forth. Primal sounds, pleasure without form or significance. Nonetheless, they said all that he needed to communicate, and his lover knew well the depth of their meaning.

 

They meant that there, in the bed that Haurchefant had given him, Aymeric belonged to him. It was less that he had offered himself, and more that he had not refused the lord's claim. But he would not object, did not wish to, too consumed was he, able only to gasp raggedly and moan, to beg the other man to grant him more using the only sounds allowed him, to clutch his shoulders close and nip at his ears and make love to him in return.

 

For a glorious, mad time, that was all that he wanted. The lord's cock never failing to stroke that hidden place within him, the hot slide of his own squeezed between their bodies, dripping and slick with sweat. His hands unable to find purchase, unable to hold his lover close enough, unable to ground him to reality and make him sane. Their mouths could hardly manage a simple kiss, too busy panting and gasping for breath, too occupied tasting any patch of skin they could reach with their lips. Their movements had initially brought them pleasure, but soon the movement _was_ the pleasure, the dance transitioning to art, making them writhe in sympathy, stretching artfully against each-other and decorating their lover's skin with saliva and deft teeth.

 

But then it was over, their dramatic dance seeming to pause for breath. It was _all_ over, because his body refused to endure the onslaught of pleasure, bowed and broke, surrendered completely to Haurchefant's will. For a moment he simply could not keep track, the noise in his mind reduced to silence, a blank white space filled with nothing but feeling. The purity of the void rang out like a perfectly-tuned bell, so sharp and vivid that he could not even hear his own wordless shouts through the haze.

 

Afterwards they curled together to sleep, messy and sticky but too satisfied to care, hoarse from their passion but in no need to speak. Aymeric's bed was his refuge, and happily he pulled Haurchefant close. Had he the ability to speak, he might have been forced to wonder what it had all meant, whether he had lost something, somehow, by giving himself so freely. But as he could not, he simply closed his eyes, knowing that when he awoke it would be with a smile.

 

Camp Dragonhead itself had become a refuge. A place where, snow-blind and cut off from quick access by messengers, Aymeric could turn off the machines in his mind and feel he was a man. He had never felt so alive as he did then, awoken by the tickling of violently blue hair in his nose. Because in that place, they had forsaken speech in favor of happiness, and traded their souls for the sacred ritual of silence. For in that place, they made love.

 

They could not resist doing so again that morning, sleepy and languid but so hard, so willing. They merely clutched each-other close, touching with body and hands, rubbing skin against skin and surprised at the ease with which they found release. More surprising was the mess that they made, or rather its aftermath. Without preamble, Haurchefant had rolled atop him and lapped at their fluids with tongue extended, dirty and shocking and so erotic that Aymeric only barely allowed him to leave the bed when he had finished breaking his fast.

 

And so it was small wonder that Aymeric did not leave that day. He had work to attend, after all, meeting with Haurchefant and his heathen friends, though they had made him wait for bells in the Intercessory. He did not count the time a loss, whiling away the turning of the glass with a wistful smile that no-one saw but his wine.

 

By the time their business had concluded, it was late. Too late to ride, by any account, at least for those who were poor of vision or whose chocobos were especially dim. But safety was paramount, especially for the Lord Commander, and so reluctantly he delayed his departure and stayed another night in his borrowed bed.

 

He did not bother to wear the loose pants the lord lent for his pyjamas. With Haurchefant there, he had no need of clothing.

 

Nor did he have need of shame, or shyness, or restraint. When at last his host had finished his myriad duties and followed him to bed, pacing toward him like a stalking wolf, Aymeric held his crystal-hard gaze with not an onze of fear. He returned the sentiment in kind, reclining against the bed as if he resided within a painting, rather than the very real place in which he had first given himself to a man. And when Haurchefant had approached him with the same hunger he had himself displayed the previous night, he did not fight back save for some token animalistic growls, his flailing movements having all been calculated to aid rather than resist, until at last only the pillow could have heard him snarl.

 

Pinned by his wrists, bowed on his knees and utterly submissive, a heavy weight draped over his back and moving suggestively against his bare arse... Aymeric could think of no place he would rather have been.

 

He nearly changed his mind when the weight withdrew, but Haurchefant's tongue could be most persuasive.

 

It was a devilish thing, prone to lying speech and wicked deeds. Only here was it safe, where in silence, deprived of lies and riddles, it could resort only to pleasing him. It was full of surprises as well as evil, making him jump to feel it sliding down his back, licking at every divot and dimple along his spine before a bite was placed along the thin skin beneath his bony hip. It tickled and cooled, winding and trailing, distracting him from its true intent. Sure hands spread his thighs as he in turn clutched the sheets, and yet he could not have imagined that Haurchefant's impish tongue would _dare_ to do what it did. But it was fact, surreal reality, an assault on his decency and his senses.

 

He could have stopped the intrusion if he had wanted to, and he felt that he perhaps should have. But he did not want to, could never want to, because he was addicted to Haurchefant, his tongue, his wickedness and sin. He would make no move to object, merely spreading his legs wider and whimpering for more, using the pillow not for rest but to mute his cries and hide his blush, to enforce the golden silence that made their transgressions real.

 

A day ago, he could not have imagined submitting to penetration at all. Now, he willingly allowed his friend to fuck him with his tongue, amazed at the way the sensation had moved from wet and strange to deep and profound. It made him want to offer himself completely, expose his soul for Haurchefant's seeking, allow every part of himself to be ravaged as he stifled his wanton moans.

 

When at length the lord withdrew, it nearly broke him. In fact, it nearly broke their silence.

 

Aymeric cried out in anguish, a ragged breath that tried to sound out the name of the only one who could satisfy him. But his lover was quick, a hand at his mouth to choke off his transgression, a stern look of reproach that gave way to a softer smile.

 

And then he got what he wanted, Haurchefant sliding so deeply within him that he forgot that he was capable of speech.

 

They rutted like animals, filthy, rough, growling out their lust. Aymeric could only endure the lord's fury, endure the seeking of his teeth as they latched securely into his shoulder, claiming and possessing and marking him as his own. It was painful, and it was beautiful, and it made him snarl and moan raggedly, bite his pillow and yell in sweet, savage triumph.

 

It was only marginally more satisfying than feeling the other man tense within him, groaning deeply against his back as he was filled with heat.

 

The next day he received the reigns of his chocobo with an impassive expression, well-schooled at concealing his feelings and thoughts. But inside, he carried a small shard of joy. Shining, secret, for him alone to see.

 

The ride back home was like a tour through all seven hells, but he didn't really mind the preview.

 

The See was as cold and cruel as ever when he returned. But it no longer had the power to freeze his soul. He carried his warmth within him now, and he was impervious to the jagged stones upon-which were crushed the dreams of his people. He focused instead on doing what he could for them, seeing justice done within the city, keeping alight the flame of hope against the eternal siege. Perhaps some day he could do more. For now, he could be patient.

 

He was very patient. More patient than he had ever thought possible.

 

But when, at length, he had need to return to Camp Dragonhead, to speak once again with the unbelievers who were no less holy than he, he was ready. He knew what he wanted, and now, he knew just how to acquire it.

 

Framed by the still snows of Coerthas, deep within halls of echoing stone, there was a place where silence reigned. Two men, once friends, now lovers, had forged a pact with neither pen nor words. It was by this oath that they were bound, the spell that let them drop their fears and their decency by the door along with the pretense of lying speech.

 

But in truth, Aymeric now understood, it was also a matter of location.

 

He was well-used to the habits of adventurers, well-aware that there was no sense in arriving early. So he did just that, leaving the evening before to watch the shadow of his chocobo grow long against the snow until it merged with the dense mantle of night.

 

It was late when he arrived. Too late for niceties and supper, too late for _good_ little boys and girls to be out and about. It was a time turned over to sin. He knew it in his blood and bones, as he paced between pools of torchlight to swim in the darkness of his thoughts. And by that flickering light he was not observed, not by saint nor sinner. None remarked his passing. Not even his quarry.

 

Not a creature was stirring within Lord Haurchefant's private rooms. Not a sound could be heard above the quiet crackle of the fire, now tired and low in the hearth.

 

Aymeric respected the silence, payed it its due. He moved with caution and care, quietly stripping his armor and setting the larger pieces upon the table. The rest, the soft silk tabard, the heavy belt, the fine gloves, they went last. He discarded them piece-by-piece as he walked, dropping them quietly upon the floor as he ate up the remaining distance with long, impatient strides. The black ear-guard and jeweled earrings went in his pocket, and then he was at the door.

 

It was just slightly ajar. Beyond lay the man he sought, tucked soundly into his own bed. Fast asleep, like the Fury-fearing man he was, at least when Aymeric was not around.

 

The knight made one last offering to the silence, leaving his black leather trousers and his undershorts to lie upon the floor.

 

And so it was that Aymeric slipped into the other man's bed, as the lord had done with him so many times. He did not even stir at first, rolling away automatically to make room for the body he knew instinctively, even in slumber.

 

Quietly, gently, the knight wrapped his arms around his lover and pulled him to his chest. Reveling in the heat of the man, breathing in the scent of wood smoke and mulled wine, roughness with a hint of fruit and spice. And he knew, now, what pleasure Haurchefant had taken, lying next to him those many nights without a word. Without thinking he placed a chaste kiss on his broad shoulder, satisfaction filling his breast with warmth. He was tempted to merely lie there, like that. Wide awake, listening to soft breaths and sleepy murmurs, watching over him through the night.

 

But he had come here for a reason, and he would not soon forget it. His body remembered too well, incited by the warmth spooned so perfectly against his groin. And so he let his hands free to wander, his lips to kiss, his teeth to bite. He sucked the tip of an ear into his mouth and breathed heavy thoughts into its depths, and slowly, so slowly, slid the loose silk pants away.

 

By the time the other man had awoken, he was half-hard and sighing softly. He was not displeased at the interruption of his dream. The reality, evidently, was better, and eagerly he turned to embrace his lover and grumble warmly in his embrace.

 

In the end, Haurchefant had not been difficult to convince. Aymeric hadn't even required the use of his tongue. Instead he used his lover's, pressing two fingers against his lips and watching with stuttering breath as he drew them into his mouth, sucking them in and swirling his tongue around, over, and deep between. The lord watched him half-lidded eyes, so soft and heavy that it nearly seemed as if he had never awoken. But they didn't need to be asleep to make magic, not there. All they had ever needed to make their dreams real had been silence, and each-other, and their sacred sanctuary did the rest.

 

Of course, it was possible that their game was valid anyplace in which they played it. But Aymeric had not truly staked new territory, in Haurchefant's larger bed. He knew it with certainty as he pressed saliva-slick fingers into his lover's body, making them both gasp for silent breaths. This bed, too, was part of their game. For in truth, it was not merely silence that allowed them to make love. It was also the location.

 

In Haurchefant's bed, he could make the man his own. And so he did.

 

The lord made no objection, only ever seemed to want more. He had aided Aymeric at every turn, knowingly, unrepentantly, lasciviously encouraging every touch. He arched into the knight's arms as he pressed deep, whimpering at the sensation and inviting more. Kissing him with needy lips and searching tongue, sighing with long, ragged purrs as he gazed back with wanting eyes.

 

He knew because Haurchefant knew it too. Because he had kept a bottle of oil in his own bedside drawer, and eagerly helped Aymeric with its use. And then he had lain back and pulled the knight atop him, showing with every glance and movement that he wanted what his lover had to give him. Pulling him close and guiding him true, hissing impatiently between his teeth and moaning deliciously when he was finally filled.

 

He may not have been the only one. Aymeric could not have been certain, to taken, too enraptured, too captive to the body that stretched beneath him, that arched and wriggled for more.

 

During the lonely nights in the Holy See, thoughts echoing too loud within his own mind, Aymeric had pondered long this moment. He had wondered how he wanted to claim the man, had it been permitted. He had entertained the idea of taking him from behind, wild, deep and hard. But he had settled on what they did now purely for the chance to see his lover's face. To watch him bite his lip and roll his eyes and bare his throat to Aymeric's flashing teeth.

 

It was more exquisite now than he had ever imagined, even in the deepest throes of his self-inflicted passion.

 

Because Haurchefant wanted it as badly as he, and shewed it with every movement and breath. He clawed at his back, twisted and writhed, encouraged him to show no mercy. And though they spoke no words, their union was a symphony of sound. The lord simply sang the clearest notes of all. Deep, tremulous, beautiful. Guiding him to the promised land, to the place where they were one. Filling his breast with hope and his body with pleasure, until at last he could run no farther.

 

The lord himself was his undoing, his guiding angel, his tempting demon. It was a little of both as Haurchefant grasped his own cock in his oil-slick hand, staring back unashamedly with heaven-bright eyes lidded with sin. And then he had tensed, arched his back and screamed in wordless pleasure, presenting the most beautiful vision Aymeric had ever seen. Every muscle taut and lightly coated in sweat, lips open and gasping, eyes wide and then thrown shut as his brows were pressed together in sweet, searing agony.

 

He did not have long to think on it, because it was then that he came undone himself. Even if he had kept his focus, it would not have helped. Haurchefant would not have let him escape his grasp. Having led him where he wanted to go, he had seized around him, bringing Aymeric crashing to the ground with eyes un-seeing, wings forgetting, for a moment, to beat.

 

His pilgrimage was over, and he had glimpsed the heavens.

 

He would never forget the sight.

 

And though the knight had changed locations, like a piece on a chess-board, following the rules, in truth tonight was no different. Sated, brilliantly happy, he hugged his lover close and basked in the glow of his affection. For though the rules of this place dictated that they speak no words aloud, still they shared their thoughts. With looks, touch, care, and breath.

 

Within the safety of Lord Haurchefant's private rooms, deep within Camp Dragonhead, silence reigned. In the morn, they would emerge, and pretend to be as friends. They would chat at length, barbed tongues and sharp wit, to laugh and fill the time. They would speak for hours, without ever once communicating anything of value or significance. Their mouths would move, yes. But they would not talk. They would not truly share their hearts, merely miming a dance that was not friendship, singing a song composed of lies.

 

And when they returned to their magical place, their silence would ring out loud and long, and their real feelings would be revealed. In silence, tongues stilled to aught but pleasure, there could be no deception. Only truth could pass their lips, only kisses and delight. And when they slept at last, they would once again know their own hearts.

 

It mattered not whose bed in which he slept, nor who laid claim to whom. In that place he had learned to hear the silence and see through the dark, and read his lover's lips. And from the safety of Haurchefant's embrace, there were no lying words.

 

Through the magic of their sacred space, Aymeric knew that he was loved.

 

 


End file.
